Or we can do the scale drama again....

And you thought I was batshit over the fandom stuff. At least then, I was clearly right, even if I resorted to a bit of hyperbole to make the point.

Back up 1 pound. I KNEW that fucking lemon butter on the fish/veggies was going to kill me, but I don't want to be the person who goes to a fancy-schmancy restaurant where the waiter spends ten minutes describing the food preparation and then demands the butter be omitted. Just, no. Sure, I'll asking for salad dressing on the side at Mel's, but I'm not messing with the chef when I'm paying $29.00 for a "Landed Swordfish" (presumably a member of the gentry.)

OK, here are some rational reactions to a one pound gain. Please keep in mind that this in context of approaching 60lbs in weight loss:

I've been eating a lot of imitation crab lately. Lo-cal, and I can keep it in the office fridge without it going stinky the way real fish of pretty much any kind does. However, that is a LOT of sodium, which could be making me retain water, so maybe we'll sub in some real crab and shrimp etc. Just have to use it quicker and freeze unused portions.

Possibly time to give up on the sweet potato. I took it up because of the glycemic index thing, but for me the sweet part seems to create a craving for more sweet AND 66 cals for 1/4 cup isn't the greatest value in the world.

Here is the NOT so rational reaction which has been consuming me since that nasty number made its appearance on Wednesday....because I want that fucking 60 lbs as a trophy of some kind.

I can't cut calories any more than I have.

Clearly, the answer is MORE EXERCISE. Wednesday night, I went to the gym AFTER WORK for more abs and weights. Thursday I got up early, went to the gym and did weights and cardio and after work rode an additional almost 10 miles. Today I was a little pokey AND had a flight tire, so did LESS abs and weights than I wanted to, but am planning some reps when I get home, since I recently (conveniently) got all the stuff that was on the weight bench in the living room put away so I can use it as a weight bench.

Now, this might sound only marginally insane, until you realize that I'm also trying to figure out how NOT to tell Peggy about it. Yes, Peggy, coach/trainer/friend/girl-crush/sort-of-sponsor....because I KNOW, I KNOW she will not be happy. She's already trying to get me to break the scale addiction, by even trying to go to every other week and I'm holding my breath till I turn blue and throwing a mini tantrum. She wants me to write lists of my awesome qualities and I'm fixating on my remaining fat and this number.

And I'd rather Hubby not know either, which is tricky, since if I go to the gym after work, I might NOT be home when he calls on his work nights to say hello and tell me he loves me.

I realize the secretiveness is a super-duper-red-light-flashing, when you're near me, darling can't you hear me SOS of ED Cray-Cray.

Not to mention the Universe throwing stuff in my face without my even looking. I just happen to be reading a GQ from September 2012 (you should see how behind I am on my New Yorkers) which has an article about male anorexics and this months Glamour (Lena Dunham cover) has one about how doctors are idiots who can't recognize an eating disorder when it walks into their office and practically purges in front of them.

Then I managed to sort of accidentally OD on a laxative tea (no really, it was an accident) and have a lovely (TMI) bout of liquid diarrhea last night. I cannot tell you how hard it was NOT to get on the scale today and see if that had accomplished anything. See, I'm only weighing once a week, so I must be sane.

Maybe all that ranting about Lord High Whiny Butt and how House and Wilson would always hurt each other (even after the so-called "happy ending") wasn't so bad after all.